Trial And Error
by AllzStar
Summary: A tragic accident leaves Kyle with little memory of his life and the people in it. Every day he must learn everything all over again. It's up to Stan to help Kyle remember who he is, but will Stan be able to cope with the repercussions? Style.
1. Prologue

**Trial And Error**

_By AllzStar_

_Author's Note: I had the idea, and I had to act on it immediately._

_**Prologue**_

The smell of sizzling vegetables and ground beef wafts from the kitchen into the den, where I am lounging on the couch with an xbox controller in my hand, trying to beat all the villains in the game I'm playing. I breathe in the scent of dinner; my stomach rumbles. Constant hunger comes with being a sixteen-year-old boy. Although I most likely have stopped growing, my appetite has not let off since my last growth-spurt. And you'd think at six foot two I'd finally stop eating my mother out of house and home.

I pause the game and get up off my ass to stretch my arms above my head, yawning in the process. Then I sluggishly make my way into the kitchen, where Mom is setting the table for dinner.

"Back from the dead, Stanley?" Mom asks sarcastically as I take my seat at the dinner table and start picking at my food. I make a grunting noise in response. "Well, you're not just going to be sitting in front of the television all March Break, Stan. Call your friends after dinner and arrange a play date or something."

Ugh. My mom_ so _doesn't realize that my friends and I are way too old to have "play dates".

My big sister Shelley (big is literal in this case) comes barging into the kitchen, pulling her wispy brown hair into a ponytail at the back of her head. "Mom," she whines as she takes a seat opposite me, "can I go to the mall tomorrow with Danny?"

"Shelley, you know that I'm working tomorrow," Mom says tiredly, dishing up her own plate and joining us at the table.

"But Mom," Shelley moans, "I already said I'd meet him!"

"Well, you should have asked me first, dear."

"I can't just bail out on him now!"

"I'm sure he won't mind," I mutter sarcastically.

Shelley kicks me in the shin. "Shut up, turd!"

"OW! Mom! She kicked me!"

"Kids, stop it," Mom breathes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Please."

We settle down and pick at our meals. I can't help but glance at the empty chair across from Mom, the one that Dad had always occupied up and till a month ago, when he'd moved out for good. The divorce hadn't been all that surprising to Shelley and me; we've seen it coming for years. But it's been weird not having Dad around all the time. Last I heard from him, he was looking for a condo in Denver, which is a good three hours away. Needless to say, we won't be seeing him much.

Halfway through our meal the kitchen phone rings. Shelley jumps up to get it, but Mom beats her to it, yelling that it's probably a call from work. She picks up and says, "Hello?" in the same tired voice she's been using since the divorce. "Well, it's the Harrison residence now. My husband moved out. Yes, Stanley's here." I look up at the sound of my name. There's a long silence in which the person on the other end of the line speaks. "Oh..." Mom looks at me, then back at the wall where the phone hangs. "He's right here." She passes me the phone.

My stomach churns suddenly, and I have a bad feeling that I'm not going to like whatever this person has to say to me. "Hello?"

"Hi, Stanley Marsh?"

"Yeah."

"I'm calling from Hell's Pass Hospital about your friend Kyle. I think you should come down to see him. There's been an accident."


	2. Kenny's Rabbit Gets Trucked

**Trial And Error**

_By AllzStar_

_Author's Note: Sorry this took so long, I've been really focusing on Kyle's Jeans! ^^_

_**Chapter One – Kenny's Rabbit Gets Trucked**_

My footsteps echo around the empty hallway as I make my way through the ward. Every now and then a solemn looking nurse will step out of a room and brush by me without a word, but other than that it seems as if the ward is empty. There's no screaming, no buzzing doctors. Is this to be expected, in the area of the hospital designated to coma patients?

The nurse on the phone hadn't given me a lot of information: just that Kyle and Kenny got in a huge car accident and both of them are in the hospital and I should see them as soon as possible. I don't even want to think about why that is. There's already a throbbing ache in my chest.

I mean, if something happens to Kenny...whatever, he'll just come back tomorrow.

But Kyle...well, Kyle's not immortal, see. He won't come back.

I shake my head to rid myself of these terrible thoughts and concentrate on just putting one foot in front of the other, quickly, and travelling down this empty, pale hallway that spells death along the walls.

Finally I come to the room I need to get to. 4B. The glass in the window is frosted; I can't see through it. So, taking a deep breath to prepare myself, I place my hand on the doorknob, twist it, and gently push the door open.

Even if I had done prepping exercises for months before stepping in here, nothing could have prepared me for what I see before me.

A broken, pale figure lies on a bed that is completely flat. One of his legs is suspended in a sling above him. Tubes—hundred of them, it seems—run from his skin to various machines all over the room. There are tubes in his wrists, tubes in his nose, his chest, his ankle. His face is so pale it's almost grey, and there are ugly red gashes decorating his neck and arms. There are several scratches and concrete-burn marks on his face; the worst have been patched up but the smaller ones are there for the world to see.

He seems skinnier than the last time I saw him, if that's even possible. His hands rest lifelessly by his sides. Everything seems to have taken on a grey tint, except for the blood. The blood is ruby vibrant red to me. It's as if I am colorblind except for the red.

His hair has been cropped short to his head, and there are several white patches—some of them are becoming soaked through with red—covering the wounds there.

_Head trauma, _the nurse had said. _Fatal wounds._

I knees buckle beneath me and I barely make it to the chair beside the bed before I collapse. I feel dizzy; the room is spinning. My breathing accelerates, pitching forward to strangled gasps for air. I'm dying, I'm dying...please, let me be dying...

*

"Stan...? Stan!"

The transition between unconsciousness and life is painful and slow, but when I finally resurface I am staring into familiar mud-brown eyes. He's shaking my shoulder gently, and his voice breaks several times as he calls my name.

"Can you hear me?" Cartman calls softly when he sees my eyes flicker open.

I nod slowly; my tongue is stuck at the back of my throat.

"Did you pass out, dude?"

I nod again.

Cartman pulls away from me and takes a seat in the chair next to me, wiping his brow on the sleeve of his t-shirt. "I don't blame you. It's kind of disgusting, isn't it?"

I don't even bother replying. We sit in silence for a bit while I get a grip on reality again. I finally do when Cartman drops the bomb: "Kenny's dead."

A numb feeling spreads through my chest. "Oh," is all I can manage.

"He'll be back tomorrow," Cartman points out. "But it still sucks balls. I'm gonna kill whoever hit them."

"Oh, my God," I say weakly, pushing myself upright in my chair. "They...killed...Kenny."

"You bastards," Cartman murmurs, not smiling, his eyes focusing on a spot on the bed as he zones out.

The numbness has spread to the rest of my body, so I just sit in the chair like a ragdoll. "Do you know what happened?" I ask Cartman, even if I know I probably don't even want to know.

His hands ball into fists on the arms of the chair. "The guy who hit them was drunk," he spits through his teeth. "He blew a .28 on the goddamn breathalyser. He swerved over the yellow line and ploughed right into them. Kenny tried to swerve out of the way, but, you know. Black ice. He couldn't get out of the way. It was a head-on collision at sixty five miles an hour. Kenny died right there, when the airbag hit him and broke his neck."

"But the nurse on the phone said I had to come see him immediately, because...well, they didn't think he had much time."

"She said _Kyle_ might not have much time." Cartman's voice breaks over Kyle's name. "Kenny was brought right to the morgue."

I can't force any noise out, so I just nod for him to continue.

"Kyle got a little beat up from the airbag, but that wasn't even the slightest issue for him. The drunk guy was driving a truck, so Kenny's little Rabbit went right under it. The truck's goddamn bumper came right through the windshield. Meanwhile both cars are spinning like nobody's business, and Kyle's side hits a lamppost. It crushes his door in, and traps him between his seat and the truck's bumper. Another car comes ploughing into them because they, too, could not get out of the way. It hits the back of the Rabbit. Kyle gets thrown forward into the bumper, breaks his nose, his head splits open. His leg shatters with the impact. He's fucking gone, man, unconscious. Probably would have died if the paramedics hadn't got him out of there soon enough."

I feel like I'm going to puke. The bile rises in my throat. I put my head between my knees and take several deep breaths.

"The drunk fucker died immediately because the lamppost came down on his truck. Cunt didn't deserve to live anyway. But there were three other cars that got it after Kenny's, and a young couple and their baby died, too. Immediately. Kyle's fucking lucky that he's only in a coma, man. Only two people walked away from that unscathed."

I yank the garbage basket towards me and vomit violently into it. My body heaves until there's nothing left to bring up. I feel Cartman's hand on my back as I practically cough up my insides.

When it's finally over I sit back in my chair and lean my head back towards the ceiling fan, letting it cool the sweat that has beaded on my forehead.

"Stan? Dude, you okay?"

I swivel my eyes in his direction, like, "Do I _look _okay?!"

"Look, man, I haven't told you the worst. Can you deal?"

I nod. I need to know.

"The doctor told me that the wounds to Kyle's head could be fatal. He could go any minute."

I feel my face blanche again, but force the bile down.

"And even if he does come out of the coma any time soon...he's not going to remember anything, Stan." Cartman look me in the eyes, and for the first time in my life, I actually see pain in his eyes. "He won't remember us, Stan."


	3. The Class Rallies

**Trial and Error**

_By AllzStar_

_Author's Note: This took a helluva long time. Me sorries! I kind of gave up on this one for a bit, I don't know why. I hope you guys remember what's going on lol because I had to reread it. :)_

_**Chapter Two – The Class Rallies**_

I'm too overwhelmed to even respond to that, so I only stare blankly at Kyle; I'm not really looking at him, but my eyes rest there. Cartman doesn't say anything else to me for the next two hours. We just sit there staring at Kyle, staring at the ceiling, staring at nothing at all. I'm not bored, I'm just...beyond. Beyond everything.

Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski show up at around six. They ask me and Cartman if we can look after Ike in the children's corner while they visit their unconscious eldest son. We only nod solemnly and back out of the room before Sheila breaks down in tears.

I never thought I'd be in a situation like this with Cartman. Somehow I always imagined that Kyle or Kenny would always be there for me, but now they were both...away. Possibly for a long time. Possibly forever. Kenny would come back; he always does, but Kyle...even if he lived, he wouldn't remember. Head trauma. Memory loss. Death. What's the difference, really?

But now, there's just me and Cartman. We find Ike on the mini jungle gym, just sitting on one of the rungs, his hands on his cheeks. He looks up expectantly when we approach him, as if Kyle will be with us. He isn't, and Ike's little face falls. The ten-year-old looks so depressed I want to cry. I reach out and the small boy scrambles off the gym and runs to me, burying his face in my abdomen. He doesn't cry, he just holds me. I've always sort of been a second big brother to him, and now that Kyle's in a coma, I guess he needs me to look up to, now.

Cartman is staring at us mournfully. Eight years has done a lot to the large boy's maturity. He knows this situation is grave. Half of me expected to sing-song about "no more Kyle" or something else that would make me punch him in the face. But he actually looks...concerned. Maybe even sad. I only makes the gravity of this situation much worse for me.

Ike's black eyes look empty under the greenish fluorescent lighting as he pulls away from my stomach. I crouch down so I'm just below his eye level. "How are you doing?"

"Where's Kyle?" Ike asks expectantly.

I look at Cartman, who shrugs. Surely Kyle's parents must have told the ten-year-old what happened...?

"He's upstairs in a room with your mom and dad," I explain slowly. "He's gonna be away for a while, though, but soon enough he'll be...up and at it again." Knock on wood. I hate that I might be lying to Ike, who's like the little brother I never had. But I can't tell what is going to happen, and so, for everyone's sake, I remain on the bright side.

"Mommy and Dad said he's sleeping," Ike says.

"Yeah." I nod. "A very deep sleep."

"And he won't wake up for a long time."

"That's it."

"But he will wake up?"

I pause. "I'm sure he will."

Ike looks up at Cartman, and then beyond him. His little brow furrows when he realizes who's missing. "Where's Kenny?"

"Kenny will be here tomorrow," Cartman interjects, stepping forward and placing a large hand on Ike's back. "Come on, kid, let's go colour some pictures." Cartman leads Ike off to the plastic tables in the corner of the kids' area while I remain where I am. I sit down on the pale green mat and put my head in my hands, fighting the nausea that suddenly hits me.

A hand, warm and gentle, comes down on my shoulder. I turn around to see Token, flanked by the rest of my class. I jump up, startled. "Hey, Stan," Token greets solemnly. He takes his hand off my shoulder and gestures to the kids behind him. "We all came to visit Kyle."

"How is he?" Wendy asks, stepping forth next to Token.

I look at them all wearily. "Not good," I say. I decide to tell them the truth, because I need to get this burden off of me. Craig, Clyde, Butters, Pip, Tweek, Bebe, Jimmy, Timmy, Red, Token and Wendy all stare at me expectantly. "He's in critical condition," I begin. My throat is dry as sandpaper. "The doctors say he's got head trauma and will have...suffer...memory loss."

Nobody says anything, but everyone, it seems, gives a sharp intake of breath.

"But what _happened_?" It's Bebe, her frizzy hair straining from its ponytail, her eyes round and bloodshot. "I mean—Kyle won't remember _anything_?"

I tell them everything Cartman told me: how the accident happened, what happened to Kenny, and how Kyle was in a coma and if he wakes up..._when _he wakes up, he probably won't remember us.

They all stare at me, horrified. "He has to remember you," Wendy says gently. "You've known each-other since you were in diapers."

"Yeah, but even I don't remember that," I say roughly. I don't want sympathy, especially from Wendy.

"Yeah, he has to remember Stan," Craig says unexpectedly. "They're best friends."

"He doesn't have to remember anything," I snap. "If his brain is fucked up enough, he won't remember a goddamned thing."

"Stan," Wendy says softly, gesturing to the children hanging about. We decide to move away from the play area and take seats in the adjoining waiting area. "I know you're upset, Stan, but—"

"Don't talk to me," I say, and sit back in my seat, looking away from her.

We all sit there in silence until Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski emerge from the ward. Wendy and Bebe go to talk to them while the rest of the class file into the ward in twos and threes to see Kyle at his worst. I join Cartman and Ike and the colouring table and draw sad faces all over the back of a colouring sheet.

Cartman looks up at me, his brown eyes filled with worry. "Don't torture yourself, Stan."

"I'm not."

"It's not like it's your fault."

"Yeah, it is."

"God damn it," Cartman says exasperatedly, "how the hell is it your fault?"

"They were on the way to my place. I asked them to come over—they didn't _want_ to. But they did. And then this happened."

"How could you have known this was going to happen?"

"I didn't. It doesn't matter. If I hadn't been so immature, this never would have happened."

Cartman huffs impatiently. "Whatever, Stan. Feel like shit if you want to. The fact of the matter is: it happened. There's nothing you can do, there's nothing you could have done, so just shut up and try not to feel sorry for yourself."

I stare at him, blinking, but I can tell the discussion is over.

"Stan! Stan!" I jump out of my skin. Wendy comes rushing over to me, breathless. "You won't believe it!"

"What?" I ask, terror creeping under my skin. "What's wrong?"

"It's Kyle!" she cries, her eyes shining. "He's awake!"

"What?" I ask, taking in a sharp breath.

She look please with herself. "He just woke up. Bebe sent me to get you right away."

"Is there anyone in there right now?"

"No. We thought...you'd want to see him first."

"Do his parents know?"

Wendy shook her head. "The nurse in on the way to tell them. Hurry!"

I shoot Cartman a look before both of us jump up and almost sprint to Kyle's room.

We pause right outside the door. There's a muffled groaning coming from inside the room. Cartman's mouth is set in a firm line, his brow furrowed as if he's concentrating. He looks at me questioningly. Looking for me to lead. To guide. The way I always used to. But I'm not used to leading without Kyle.

I nod at him before closing my hand around the doorknob, and turning slowly...

TBC


	4. Waking Up

**Trial and Error**

_By AllzStar_

_Author's Note: Why is Kyle always victimized in these stories? Honestly..._

_**Chapter Three – Waking Up**_

I enter the room first; Cartman seems to be hanging back a little. The redhead in the bed is staring at the ceiling, blinking slowly, his small chest rising and falling steadily under the starchy white sheets. I come to stand by his bed and look down at him, trying to force a smile onto my face. "Hey, Kyle."

Only his eyes swivel to look at me. He says nothing, but takes me in: my height, my face, my eyes, my clothes. I sit down in the chair beside his bed and pull it close, reaching out to cup his hand with both of mine. "How are you feeling?"

He stares at me, his eyes dull and blank, his lips parched and slightly apart. He just breathes and looks at me. Breathes and looks. Waiting for me to do something?

"It's me," I say, stroking his cold hand, "Stan."

His brow furrows slightly, creating a little crease at the top of the bridge of his nose. His mouth opens as if he is going to say something, but no sound comes out. I immediately reach for the water on his nightstand, but then he says, "No." I look at him, confused. Kyle looks back at me, and now his eyes are processing something that pains him. "I'm sorry..." he says, his voice breaking and cracking.

I hunch over him, barely resisting from swiping a stray red curl from his forehead. "No, no, don't be sorry," I say quickly. "It's not your fault. Don't ever feel sorry. What happened was an accident. But it's okay now. Everything is going to be fine."

"What...happened?" Kyle asks. There's a strange sense of apprehensiveness in the way he addresses me, but I assume it's just because he's been unconscious for a few days now.

"You crashed," I say softly, and this time I do brush the hair from his face. "You and Kenny were driving and a truck hit your car. But both of you are...okay. You're both fine. Kenny's gonna come and see you tomorrow."

"Who's Kenny?" he asks slowly.

I blink, open my mouth, close it. Open it again. "Kenny's one of our best friends, dude."

"Are you my best friend?" Kyle asks.

I nod; tears sting at the back of my eyes.

"I'm sorry...I don't...know who you are." Kyle looks up at me sadly. "That's what I was trying to say before."

I seem to lose all sense of what is real. I'm floating in a surreal universe, watching myself as I crumple into my chair. I watch from above as Cartman comes in and places a reassuring hand on my back. My hands are wet. My face is wet. I'm soaked, chilled to the bone.

"Do you know me?" Cartman asks the clueless figure in the bed. "Do you know how I am?"

Kyle opens his mouth to respond but then the door to the room opens and the Broflovskis stumble in. Kyle's eyes widen in surprise. "Mommy?"

Sheila, overjoyed and flooded with motherly tears, rushes to her son's side, taking the chair on the other side of the bed from me and hugging her son senseless. When she pulled away she wipes the running mascara from her face with a tissue. Kyle looks up at her. "You look so different..." he says softly.

Sheila either didn't hear him or ignored it. "Oh, bubbie, you're okay. Oh, my sweet sausage. Oh, my bubbelah, I was so _worried_!"

She hugs Kyle again and sobs into his shoulder. Kyle pats her back comfortingly, the IV in his arm making me feel suddenly very nauseous. Gerald and Ike crowd around their son and brother, and so Cartman and I take our cue to leave.

I feel empty. I feel tired, like I can't hold myself upright anymore. Halfway down the hallway I suddenly slump against Cartman, almost knocking him into the wall. He supports me until we get to the waiting room, where the rest of the class is waiting anxiously for our report. All their questions die on their tongues when they see us, devastated, me slumped against Cartman in an almost-fainting state, and Cartman, trying to fight back tears.

Wendy rushes forth and takes me from Cartman, dragging me over to the seats and lying me down across them, my head in her lap. She soothingly brushes my hair and leans over me, her own hair tickling my cheek, murmuring words of endearment. They mean nothing. I barely hear them. I'm watching Cartman as he tries very hard not to break down in front of his friends, but his efforts are in vain. Butters steps forwards and hugs the big teen; in response, Cartman puts his arms around Butters and begins to sob silently.

I feel like I should be crying, too. But my eyes are dry. I'm like a raft floating in the middle of the ocean: lost, and alone, drowning. I'm drowning...

Everything goes black.

KKK

When I wake, I'm in my bed in my house. I sit up quickly, ignoring the blood rush, and jump out of bed, yanking on jeans and a t-shirt, and sprint down the stairs, pausing only to rise my mouth with Listerine.

My mother calls out only once as I exit the house and hop into my car.

The drive to the hospital is ominous, as always. I leave the radio off and the windows done up. All I hear are the ambient noises of the street and my steady breathing.

I wonder what Kenny and Kyle were doing right before they'd crashed. They'd probably had the windows rolled down, the music blasting from the speakers. Maybe Kenny had been dancing a little in his seat, singing along with the song, screaming it to the world. Kyle would have been laughing and trying to get into the groove too; failing miserably. He would have been just admiring Kenny and his fearlessness.

And then the truck hit them.

I wonder what went through Kyle's mind when the first shock of the impact had hit. He'd probably been thinking about Kenny right away, if Kenny was alright. He was probably thinking of his mother, of the devastation he'd cause her if he died. He might have been thinking he didn't want to die. But I know he was only thinking about all the people in his life.

And Kenny, the shock of dying instantly. Had he simply drifted out of his body, the way he usually does, and looked down on the scene in horror? Watched as his mangled body got incarcerated, watched as his best friend was thrown about and broken and crushed? Does Kenny know that Kyle is alive? Suddenly I can't wait for Kenny to come back.

My wish is, for once, granted. Kenny is waiting for me in the waiting room, and I run at him, my arms outstretched. We hold each-other tightly, both fighting tears, clutching each-other as tightly as possible, as if neither of us want to let go. Kenny pulls away first and takes my face in his hands, wiping away my tears with his thumbs. I blink in surprise. I hadn't realized I'd started to cry.

"He doesn't remember?" Kenny asks quietly.

I shake my head. My throat is stuck; I can't speak.

Kenny hugs me again, and this time it's gentler. "You don't want to know what happened, do you?"

I shake my head again.

"He's got to remember," Kenny murmurs over my shoulder. "He's _got_ to."

I bury my face in Kenny's shoulder, crying into the orange fabric there. I hold Kenny tighter, his body pressed against mine. I have to keep reminding myself that he is real. That he is here with me. The one person who saw Kyle last before he was smashed. Before everything that matters was wiped from his memory.

I want to believe Kenny. I ache to believe him. My heart begs me to believe him.

But my gut clenches, and I know I'll have to fight harder to believe him than I thought.


	5. Rage

**Trial and Error**

_By AllzStar_

_Author's Note: Okay, okay! I'm updating! Sheesh..._

_**Chapter Four – Rage**_

_Lies._

That's all everyone keeps telling me. Lies.

"It's going to be okay, Stan."

"He'll come around, Stan."

"Don't worry, Stan, everything is going to be fine."

Fuck everyone. Seriously. Obviously, everything is NOT. FUCKING. FINE.

I am past the numb, unfeeling stage. Long past that. I flew right past the teary, emotional stage and went right into the boiling, undeniable rage. When I got back from the hospital I spent an hour in my room trashing the place, throwing everything my hands could touch against a wall. Half my fish are dead, but I'm beyond caring.

"FUCK!" I had yelled, screaming at the top of my lungs as I whipped a soccer trophy at the wall. "WHAT THE FUCK, KYLE!"

It's hardly his fault; it's not like he erased me from his memory on purpose. But fuck if it doesn't hurt. Now I'm sitting on my bed, my knees drawn to my chest, rocking back and forth, trying to calm myself down. It's not working. I haven't run out of steam yet, and there are still so many things to _break._

There's a tentative knock on my door. I don't answer. I don't want to see anybody; I don't want anybody to see _me. _I know I'm a complete mess. I haven't showered in three days and my hair is a rat's nest under my tuque and I just know my face is a puffy mass of dried tears and flushed cheeks. My neck feels warm and feverish, and I feel like I might throw up. I just want to scream. Scream and scream and scream until no sound comes out. Smash my head against a wall until I can't remember either.

My mother enters my room anyway, tentatively poking her head around the door. She takes in the mess I've made, and I can see the pity in her eyes. I want to hit her. "Stan?"

She speaks to me as if I am a wild animal; preparing for me to pounce at her any second. She can see the fury in my eyes, I think, because she shrinks into the doorframe. "Stanley, honey..." Suddenly her eyes flood with tears. She enters my room, shuts the door behind her softly and picks her way across the room, careful to avoid the broken glass that had come from shattering my picture frames.

She perches lightly on the edge of my bed a few inches away from me and regards me gently. Her eyes are red rimmed and she's snaffling, but even I, the "faggy emo pussy" as Cartman likes to call me, cannot gather enough emotion now to care. She reaches out and puts her hand on my knee; I shy away from the touch, but her hand remains there.

"Stanley." Her voice is gentle, and to my annoyance I feel myself softening. Something inside of me comes undone in that one word, my own name, spoken to me by my mother, of all people. Something inside me snaps, and I know it's over.

Here comes the teary stage.

I scramble over to her and bury my face in her shoulder, and start to sob.

KKK

School is hell.

I know most kids have already figure that out, but I have discovered that school is on a completely different _grade_ of hell than I thought it was.

People are staring at me. _All the time. _

_There he is, _they think I pass them, my head bent low so my bangs hide my eyes, _the zombie kid's best friend._

Everyone knows everyone at this school, so everyone knows how tight Kyle and I were. But we were like one person. Now...who the hell am I? The zombie kid's best friend. The forgotten one. The fucking faggot who can't live without his butt buddy best friend.

I whirl around and whale full-on on the douche-bag that actually whispered that at my back. He backs away, his eyes wide, his hands up, but I come at him anyway, fists flying. I punch him, punch him, punch him; but it's not enough; there's no way he can understand my pain through a simple broken nose.

Firm hands grasp my upper arms and haul me off of him; he's groaning and whimpering on the floor, clutching his bleeding nose. I turn around to see Cartman, glaring down at me with a look in his eyes that stops the rage flowing through me instantly. He hauls me away just as several teachers come flying down the hallway to digress the scene.

He drags me outside and off school property, by a little stream that struggles through the weeds and into the woods. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and offers me one; I take it gladly, even though I quit four months ago. We light up and smoke in silence, toeing the ground sheepishly, looking anywhere but at each-other. It's hard to imagine that Cartman and I are in the same boat, here. Here I was, thinking I'd be leaning on Kenny while Kyle is the way he is, but Cartman seems to be watching my back lately. Literally.

"I know you're angry," Cartman says after we've both smoked half our cigarettes. "I know you're upset. I can't actually understand what you're going through right now, but I know it must fucking suck." He rubs his neck, and for the first time I can see how _tired _he looks. The bags under his eyes, his sallow-looking face; he, like me, has not been sleeping well. "But, fuck, Stan. You can't just whale on the first asshole that pisses you off."

"I can do whatever the fuck I want," I spit back, throwing my cigarette to the ground and stomping on it. "He deserved it."

"I'm not saying he didn't." Cartman looks at me steadily. "But getting yourself in trouble isn't going to make Kyle remember any sooner, Stan."

I glare at him; heat licks up my arms very quickly and then I'm shaking with anger all over again. "You don't know anything!" I yell at him. All the pent up rage I've been trying to keep inside ever since I broke down to my mom comes flying out of my mouth. "You don't fucking get it because you're never had a best friend. You don't know how much this _sucks! _I can't go _anywhere _without people looking at me like they feel sorry for me. I'm not a fucking charity case! I don't need their help! I just need—" I break off, because my eyes are leaking and my voice has been cracking far too much. I compose myself quietly, swallowing my tears, clenching and unclenching my fists. Cartman waits patiently for me to finish. "I just need my best friend."

For once, Cartman doesn't call me a fag for being emotional. He simply puts a hand on my back as I double over, hands on my knees, panting for reality. I'm so emotionally spent I feel sick.

"You're acting like he's dead," Cartman says softly when I straighten up again, letting the breeze caress my face. "He's not dead, Stan."

I look at him, and something in his face falls when he sees the expression on mine. "He might as well be."


	6. The Song Of Forgetting

**Trial and Error**

_By AllzStar_

_Author's Note: And the shadowboxing begins..._

_**Chapter Five – The Song of Forgetting**_

"Did you hear that Kyle's getting out of the hospital tomorrow morning?" Cartman asks, his voice crackling through the phone receiver.

I cradle the phone between my cheek and my shoulder as I awkwardly try to put five plates back into my kitchen cupboard. "Yeah, Kenny told me." I wrinkle my nose, wincing as the plates clatter together loudly on the shelf. "Why is Kenny always the first to know stuff?"

"He's there, like, first thing every morning." Cartman lets out a sigh, and I know he's thinking the same thing as me. "What are we gonna do with the Jew when he gets up and about?"

I roll my eyes at Cartman's old nickname for Kyle. Some people, despite terrible accidents, never change. "I don't know," I reply, shutting the cupboard and leaning against the kitchen sink. My mother comes in and shoos me away, telling me to clean my room while she finishes the dishes. "I guess we should just...try and help him remember and...stuff," I say as I bound up the stairs two at a time to my room.

It's still a mess. Pieces of the things I broke still litter the floor. Mom has offered many times to help me clean up, but I feel I ought to do it on my own.

"Your mom still tells you to clean your room, Marsh?" Cartman snickers. "You're such a fag."

"Shut up, Cartman!" I hiss angrily. I don't know whether it's terrible or reassuring that we're falling back into our usual habits.

"What do you have to clean up? Condoms? Empty lube bottles?"

"Screw you, fatass. I'm hanging up."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he chuckles. "I was kidding."

I roll my eyes and flop down on my bed. "You're such an asshole."

"And you are sounding more like Kyle every day," Cartman retorts, "Super-Douche." It's lame, even for him. "Seriously. What's wrong with your room?"

"I just...broke some stuff."

"Like what stuff?"

I grit my teeth and throw an arm over my eyes. "Bunch of stuff. My old soccer trophies, my fish tank, picture frames..."

"Jesus," Cartman mutters. "Did a bomb go off?"

"Sorta," I say quietly. Something on my floor has caught my eye. I get off my bed and sit cross-legged on the floor, careful not to get glass in my ass. Clearing away some old newspaper clippings, I see a picture frame buried under the clutter, the glass cracked like a spider web. The photo underneath is still clearly visible, however; and mine and Kyle's faces are smiling up at me. We're about thirteen, arms around each-other, enjoying a summer day at Stark's Pond, beaming happily at the camera. We look so childish, somehow. Kyle's jaw line is softer and rounder and his freckles are more in abundance, more prominent. His wild red hair springs out from underneath that stupid green hat he used to wear. I look truly happy, like as long as my best friend is with me, nothing can go wrong. My cheeks are touched pink with sunburn; my sunglasses are pushing my bangs off my forehead.

Were we ever really so young and carefree? I wonder, my eyes suddenly burning with tears. Were we ever that innocent?

"Hello? Helloooooo?" Cartman is calling from the other end of the line. I'd forgotten he was there.

"Uh, Cartman, I'm gonna call you later, 'kay?"

"Stan?" he asks incredulously. "What—?"

I hang up quickly. My vision has gone blurry, and as I toss the phone aside, only adding to the clutter, I realize I'll never be able to get through all the stuff littering my floor. There are too many memories of me and Kyle here, scattered and broken everywhere. Maybe, in some way, they were just meant to be broken. Shattered, like the glass on my floor.

KKK

The house is just as I remember it: blue walls, neutral furniture, grey carpet. The portrait of the happy family beaming down from its stop opposite the dining table. I sit down with my back to it, clutching my cardboard box to my chest. The house looks the same, but it feels completely different. Without Kyle's loud and distinct voice cheerfully babbling or yelling at Cartman over the phone; even without the very _hum _of Kyle presence, his energy, as he quietly does his homework in his room, the whole house feels empty and bare.

It has been a week since Kyle got home from the hospital; I haven't been to see him till now. He hasn't been at school, but he's due back this Monday. Two days from now.

I remember the phone call I received last night from Kyle's doctor.

"Hello, Stanley," she had said, her voice clear and warm, "I'm Dr. Westfield, Kyle's physician."

"What's the matter?" I asked instantly. "Is Kyle okay? Did something happen?"

She had laughed pleasantly. "Kyle's just fine, Stanley. We've been monitoring his time at home and he is making a speedy recovery. Physically, at least." She paused. "Stanley, I was hoping you might be able to help with the mental part of his condition."

"Me?" I asked, stunned. "How?"

"You and Kyle were very close, right?"

I nodded; then nearly hit myself for being so stupid. She couldn't see me. "Yeah. We _are_ best friends."

"Of course," she said quickly, trying to cover up her mistake of using the past tense. "Yes. You're best friends. I was wondering if you could gather a few items relating to Kyle's past—including you—and bring them to his house tomorrow morning. You and he and I and his family will go through the items and see if we can jog his memory. Photographs work as well, wonderfully."

I thought of the three huge scrapbooks my mother had insisted I spend ten laborious hours on, loaded with photos of me and Kyle on our various adventures. "You mean the memories are still there?"

"Some people, after head trauma, develop short-term memory loss, which means after a short period of time they forget everything that happened within that time." She paused, letting my digest this information. "Kyle shows no signs of developing STML, so we're hoping that reminding him of his past might help bring the memories back. If not, it could be he was long-term memory loss. If this is true...I'm not sure those memories will come back."

I swallowed roughly and pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to banish away the fresh tears. I was amazed I had any tears left. "I'll try," I had said, then: "Dr. Westfield?"

"Yes, Stanley?"

"Why is it that Kyle remembers Kenny and not me, even though he's known me longer?"

Dr. Westfield made a small noise. "I have been studying the brain for years, but it still holds mysteries for me. I don't know, Stanley. Hopefully we can remind him of you and what you had—_have _together."

Now, here I am, waiting in Kyle's dining room table while Mr. Broflovski and Dr. Westfield's assistant help the redhead down the stairs in his wheelchair. Dr. Westfield herself sits at my right and gives me an encouraging smile whenever I look in her direction. She is younger than I had expected her to be, and prettier. She has light blonde hair that frames her face in a halo of gold, and kind brown eyes with laugh lines at the corners. She gives me a feeling of comfort; even though this is the most uncomfortable I have felt in weeks.

I hear the wheelchair hit the landing and draw in a deep breath. Dr. Westfield's assistant comes around the corner, followed by Mrs. Broflovski and Kyle's little brother, Ike. Then the wheelchair appears, bit by bit, around the corner, and Mr. Broflovski appears, pushing the chair. Kyle is buried in the chair under a couple of blankets, but his gaze is sharp and clear. He finds me straight away, his eyes piercing and curious.

I look away, feeling flushed. I don't know if I can do this. Why do there have to be so many people here?

Gerald wheels the chair towards me and tucks Kyle in on my left, across from Dr. Westfield. "Hello, Kyle," she says softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he responds mechanically, as if he's been saying this for days. "I feel fine."

"Good." She looks at me and gestures for me to place the box on the table. I put the box on the floor instead and start pulling things out, placing them on the table in front of Kyle. He stares at the items, genuine curiosity in his eyes. "Kyle, do you know who this is?" Dr. Westfield asks, gesturing to me.

Kyle's eyes land on me for a second, and I see the recognition in them—he remembers me from the hospital, when he first woke up. But nothing more than that. There's not the warmth or the relief in his eyes that there usually is when he sees me. There's nothing, really. Nothing in his eyes but curiosity. Slowly, he shakes his head. His eyes are a silent apology.

"This is Stanley Marsh," she says, her voice clear and deliberate. "You've known him all your life, Kyle."

He looks at her, his eyes wide. He says nothing.

"Well, Stan here has agreed to help you get your memories back. Is that alright?"

I am stunned at how much they've told him. He must know he was in an accident, that he's lost half his memory of his life before the accident. How strange it must be for him, knowing he has lived seventeen years of life, and not remembering any of it. How unnerving.

I push the first scrapbook towards him. It's the crappiest, since it was the first one I made, and it was before I actually knew how to make a scrapbook. He reaches to open it and I see the patches on his arms for the first time: there's a huge gauze bandage that runs from his upper arm to half way down his forearm. He flips through the pages, that curiosity still in his eyes. There is incredulity there, too—he can't believe what he's seeing. It amazes me that even though Kyle is a different person than he was before, I can still read him like a book.

He looks at me, his finger poised lightly on one of the pictures. "Is that you?" he asks softly.

I lean toward him to get a better look at the photo. It is me and Kyle when we were about seven, crouching over a dead bird in Kyle's backyard. I am looking up at the camera with a surprised expression of someone who did not know the camera was there. Kyle is looking at the bird sadly, and I know that there were tears in his eyes then.

"Yes," I reply, looking sidelong at him. "We were seven. We were playing in your backyard and then you found a dead bird." I sigh. "You were really upset, like crying. Your dad came out and helped us bury it."

His eyes widen. "Is it still there?"

I feel the ghost of a smile on my lips. "I doubt it. That was ten years ago."

Kyle looks back at the photo, and then at me, and I know he still doesn't remember.

But it's a start.

He moves to turn the page.


	7. So This Is My Life

**Trial And Error**

_By AllzStar_

_Author's Note: Ah...long update period. I have no excuse._

_**Chapter Six – So This Is My Life**_

The following Monday is grey and drizzly. The streets are slick with rain and it feels like eight in the evening at eleven in the morning. Needless to say, it's depressing. Not to mention the rain will crust over the snow, making it rock hard and crunchy. Gotta love South Park.

I make my way across the parking lot, picking my way around patches of black ice and slush, my mind somewhere far away.

Today is Kyle's first day back at school.

I have no idea what's in store, and I don't know if I'm ready to face the day ahead of me. But I have no choice, so I take a deep breath and pull open the doors of the school. If I expected a blast of warm air, I don't get it. The school is only a few degrees warmer than it is outside. Lovely.

Cartman and Kenny are waiting for me by my locker, where we usually meet in the morning. They greet me in a wane manner; as if they expect me to flip shit any second. I give them a knowing look. "I'm okay so far. You guys ready?"

They exchanged glances. "I don't know," Kenny replies honestly.

I nod my head. "I know the feeling."

"It's just weird," Cartman says. "Knowing we're gonna see him today...but he doesn't know us."

"He knows Kenny," I say before I can stop myself. Kenny shoots me a look full of what can only be pity, but I don't dare say anything more.

Kenny opens his locker and shoves his book bag inside, yanking out a large gym bag in replacement. "I've got gym first," he says. "Kyle's in my class...I'll let you guys know how he is."

"Text me," I say, holding up my phone. Kenny nods and lopes away towards the change rooms. I sigh and fish my history textbook out of my bag. I look at Cartman. "Guess we might as well head to class."

He nods and falls into step beside me. It's the first time in a long time we don't talk on our way too, during, or after history class.

OOO

I can't say I'm honestly surprised when Kyle brushes by me in the cafeteria. He doesn't know me. But I'd thought he'd at least cling to me, since I'm familiar to him. We spent the entire weekend together, looking at photos of us as kids. I hadn't thought losing his memory would change his personality; Kyle was never one to hurt someone on purpose.

Kenny senses my misery immediately as I sit down for lunch, plunking my face on my fist. "That bad?"

"He ignored me," I say, looking at my tray of very unappetizing food. "Completely. I mean, sure, maybe he doesn't remember me from before the accident, but he should know me now. We spent the whole weekend together! Why is he being so shallow?"

Cartman turns in his seat to search for the redhead in question. Kyle is sitting a few tables away with Craig and his gang. "The fuck is the Jew doing over there?" he asks.

"Butters was really nice to him in Calc," Kenny replies. "I guess Kyle's sitting with him because he feels safe."

"I wasn't nice enough, then," I pout, picking at my food with my fork. "This sucks balls."

"Why don't we just go over there and sit with them?"

"The bench is full," Cartman says before I can. I blink at him. Is he defending me?

"Well, Kyle's not gonna remember on his own, guys," Kenny snaps, tossing his fork onto the table. "It's give-and-take, and just sitting here pouting isn't gonna change anything!"

"Why don't you go over there, then, Kenny?" Cartman growls.

"I will." Kenny fixes me with a meaningful look. I look away. I can't stand it when he looks at me like that. "You really expected him to be the same, huh? Well, news flash, Stan, he isn't. If you're too much of a pussy to actually work hard and make him remember himself, then why the hell were you his friend in the first place?" Kenny shakes his head, grabs his tray, and swings himself out of the bench.

I don't see him walk away. My world has gone blurry.

OOO

I'm determined to make him talk to me.

We have biology together last period. Perfect opportunity. We were lab partners before the accident, and I doubt Mr. Mann will let him switch halfway through the year.

I swing into my seat and tap my fingers on the desk. I'm a ball of nervous energy now, anticipating and yearning and hoping. I'm praying silently that something—anything—will become of this hour.

Kyle walks into the room, looking miffed. Butters grabs his elbow and steers him through the room towards the side of the class. I stare at the blond fuck. He's seriously making Kyle his lab partner? Then what about...oh, no.

Wendy comes in, sees Kyle and Butters sitting together, sighs, and heads down the aisle towards me. She smiles at me shyly. "I guess we're both out of partners."

"I guess." It comes out as a growl. I don't mean it to. I think she knows that.

She sits down next to me and sweeps her dark hair up into a ponytail. And just like that, I'm transported to grade nine. The smell of coconut—whatever shampoo she uses is AMAZING—and the sweep of that long, silky hair. It's mesmerizing.

"Stan," she says, waving a hand in front of my face. "Earth to Stan!"

"Hi." I looked sidelong at her and offer her a lopsided smile. "Sorry. Miles away."

She looks like she's about to say something but the teacher comes in and starts class. She closes her mouth, sighs, and bends down to collect her things from her book bag.

For some reason—it's just instinct, I think—my eyes swivel to the right. Kyle's looking at me, half twisted in his seat. As soon as my eyes meet his he give me a shy smile and a little wave. I stare at him, dumbfounded. But I return the gesture with a teeny smile of my own. Then he shrugs and turns back around in his seat to converse with Butters.

I look back to the front and catch Wendy smiling at me. But I'm too busy smiling myself to really care.

OOO

Kenny picks me up after bio and we head to the bus together. Cartman materializes out of nowhere and then it's the three of us again, lumbering through the yard, our backpacks weighing us down with textbooks and unfinished homework. It's a normal day after school, and yet nothing about it feels normal.

I didn't talk to Kyle all day.

I feel drained, even though I didn't really do anything all day. I don't want to slip back into angst mode just yet, though, so I stoop down, grab a handful of snow and chuck it at the back of Kenny's head. The blond yelps in surprise and turns around. I expect him to have a huge grin and to nail another one back at me, but his face is contorted into a glare. "What the fuck, Stan!" he yells. He turns and stalks towards the bus. Cartman and I look at each-other, and again, we have nothing to say.

_Author's Note: A sad excuse for a chapter, but I really wanted to get an update done so that you wouldn't think I'd died. I'm still alive! And don't worry, the next chapter will actually have stuff happening, rather than this filler shite. Sorry guys. I love you? :)_


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